


Her Boy and The Bard

by FadedSepia



Series: The Collected Memoirs of Miss Roach of Rivia [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Human Narrator, POV Roach, Repetitive Meet-Stupid, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Roach is One Horse, Roach is So Done (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24474049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: ❦❦❦Her Boy and The BardorExcerpts from the Memoirs of Ms. Roach of Rivia❦“Leave him,” he hisses, tightening his legs against her flanks.She lays an ear close along her head, letting her eye drift back to him. Her boy ought to know better by now; she’ll put hoof to trail when they’re readied, and nary a moment sooner. She snorts, yanking her head before he can take in her slack. Lipping sleep-mussed short hair, she nudges their little tag-along until he flails from his bedroll.“Wha-! You cannot eat my hair, horse!”Indeed, and well she knows it; if the rest of him tastes anywhere near as terrible as that top bit, she’ll be happy to never get a nibble of him again.❦❦❦
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Collected Memoirs of Miss Roach of Rivia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1793491
Comments: 61
Kudos: 424





	Her Boy and The Bard

**Author's Note:**

> How did we even get here? _*deep breath*_ O~kay, so I will start with this right off the bat: This is my first, and may be my only (watch me prove myself wrong) piece of _Witcher_ fanfiction. It’s written setting aside canon (possibly?), and assuming that Roach is – in fact – the same single mare, travelling at Geralt’s side for (nearly) a century. I’ve heard that one should create the things they want to see in the world, and – apparently – I really wanted to see some _Witcher but Roach is the Narrator_ fanfic. With that in mind, don’t expect a lot of deep philosophical conversations; you’re mostly just getting snark, sass, and wuffling.
> 
> If you’ve read any of my work in other fandoms, you’ve had a taste of what’s coming. If not, then mind the gap and welcome to the party!
> 
> I shouldn’t lay the blame for this story at any single person’s feet, but I’ll do so, anyway; it’s all the fault of ElloPoppet. I was beta-reading [her lovely Geraskier soulmates fic,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24418102/chapters/58908550) and got inspired to do a meet-cute- er, well, a meet- _stupid…_ from the POV of Geralt’s horse… because that makes sense… So – yes – blame her excellent writing and subsequent assistance in editing my own for dragging this thing to conclusion within forty-eight hours.

❦❦❦

There is no warning when the bard returns. He comes upon them like a summer squall; today they spy him around a dog-legged bend in the path toward town, a boisterous bluster of waving arms and shouting. “I caught word you were headed this way!”

Her boy ignores him, as always, and she keeps walking right along past where he’s sat on a stump by the wayside. 

“Well met, then!” She doesn’t miss the half-voiced mumble that follows – _“Ass.”_ – nor the quick run he breaks into to catch them. “You could stop, at the very least.”

She’s no intention of it, and her boy hasn’t requested she do so. He does shift in the saddle, sighing out a weary address to the man now nearly trotting at her shoulder. “Jaskier.”

Her mind is set as firmly on their destination as her hooves against the packed earth. They’ve hours yet before they’ll be stopping for the night – this little town they’ve reached is hardly a speck on any map, and she’d rather sleep in the forest than in the ramshackle lean-to that serves as the little hamlet’s community stable – the more quickly she can get them along, the better. Her boy has never been heavy handed on the reins, but he tugs now, and she slows further, until she’s loping so slowly that the bard can walk backwards before her, still yammering on.

“Not even a _‘hullo’_ for a friend?”

“You have enough _hullo_ for a dozen people,” grumbles her boy as he slips from the saddle without asking her to stop, giving her a firm pat on the flank as they walk along. “No need to heap on more.”

“You’re in a foul mood today.”

“I’m in the mood for quiet.”

She’s forced to walk behind him as they push further into the center of town; trailing the two of them, brought to a stop too often for her liking as the returned singer gabs with the locals. Genial he might be, but he blows like thistledown across the square, leaving with smiles, if not wares. Her boy tolerates him and – despite not so much as buying her an apple – she makes an effort to do so as well. They’ve travelled alongside worse.

This one she doesn’t mind so much. Capricious though he may be, he’s the longest lasting tag-along she’s known, and she’s known all of them. 

Of a surety, there have been others, but they all go in similar fashion; taken by violence or sorrow or time, bones and memories only long-passed mileposts on their journey. This one, strangely, returns; crops up leagues ahead of where they left him, carrying tales and trailing troubles like loose reins. Though, often enough, he also brings far flung delicacies, honey and meadow flowers and tiny carrots, secreted in pockets and pouches, little gifts for her shared during long spans when her boy is off slicing through filth. When he’s with them, his songs fill the hours she would otherwise spend alone; betimes, she misses the silence, trotting away to leave him at their fire, though his chatter is oft as endearing as it is noisome.

He’s nattering away even now, steadily pacing her while her boy slips back into the saddle as they leave the hamlet, words trickling in a stream while he sits silent, if not inattentive. His calves tense when something piques his ire, while his knees dig against her flanks when he fights down a tremulous laugh. He mutters, sometimes to the man walking beside them, sometimes to her, most often to himself, which might as well be to her, for all that she hears every word, though she’ll give him the illusion of his privacy. Her boy’s always been a proud one; he’d be laughing otherwise. 

Instead, he nudges her ribs with his knees – neither consciously nor for directing her, but only to stifle his mirth – and growls out a tersely polite order. “Jaskier; shut up.”

Their companion huffs in protest, but acquiesces.

It’s a quiet afternoon, for all of the half hour that passes before he starts up singing.

❦❦❦

When her boy wakes in the grey limned hours before dawn, she’s already afield, mouthing through the frost-tipped grasses, eager to get something on her stomach ere they take their leave. She hears him grunt awake as he pushes up from his bedroll, turns enough to glimpse him from one eye. _Silly lad._ His hair is in his mouth, and he still has to waste time pushing it back. She’s shown him how to flick it away a thousand times; he still struggles at it.

She waits until golden eyes land on her, catching his little nod of acknowledgement. He’ll call when he needs her, so she can finish her meagre breakfast.

There’s barely enough time for it, not with the pace he keeps. It always seems she’s only just sated as he finishes rolling his bed and checking his blade. He settles his gear across her back, liberal in petting at her before he’s astride, urging her away from their little camp and still sleeping bard.

She nickers, turning back as soon as she begins, before she feels the slight tug, lead guiding her eastward.

Her boy isn’t often one for games, but she’ll oblige. She wheels to her left, walking a full circle, ears pricked as she wends them a few yards closer to the third member of their little band.

“What?”

A silly lad asking a silly question. He knows _what._ She tosses her head, snort amused, and takes the last few steps needed to bring them alongside the cloak-wrapped singer.

“Leave him,” he hisses, tightening his legs against her flanks.

She lays an ear close along her head, letting her eye drift back to him. Her boy ought to know better by now; she’ll put hoof to trail when they’re readied, and nary a moment sooner. She snorts, yanking her head before he can take in her slack. Lipping sleep-mussed short hair, she nudges their little tag-along until he flails from his bedroll.

“Wha-! You cannot eat my hair, horse!”

Indeed, and well she knows it; if the rest of him tastes anywhere near as terrible as that top bit, she’ll be happy to never get a nibble of him again.

The bedraggled musician finally gets to his feet, whereupon he sets aside his ire for her in favour of spouting off at her rider.

“You were simply going to leave me?”

“It’s dawn, and I’ve a destination to reach. I was _simply_ going to leave.”

She watches him stomp, ignoring her boy’s persistent prodding to move, gaze following the harried singer as he flits around to break his own camp, loading it all onto his rather smallish person with admirable swiftness. He ends where he began, arms akimbo and brow furrowed as he asks, “You really wouldn’t have waited?”

“If not for a stubborn horse, you could’ve slept on ‘till noon.”

As if _he_ has the right to call _anyone_ stubborn; cheeky lad.

“That proves her smarter than you, and _she_ tried to eat me.” The musician pets gently at her nose, but, by his tone, their wandering singer thinks her a dullard, and her boy an imbecile at best.

Perhaps it _was_ the right idea not to rouse him, and today is a day to leave their unasked for companion to his own devices. They’ve done it before, and he’s fared well enough. With that in mind, she pulls back from his hand, giving in to the steady nudge that’s been pressing along her flanks, and starts eastward. Her pace is steady, sedate but not sluggish; slow enough that the bard will catch up, if he’s quick about it.

❦❦❦

He slips down beside her, creased doublet smelling of ale and meat and too many people, slumping in against her back with a weary sigh. “I can’t fathom what Geralt sees in her, aside from the… _obvious parts.”_

He’s waiting for her acknowledgement – he’s always desperate for the smallest measure of notice – but she’s weary from the day’s trek. When he remains despite her inattention, she realizes how lonely the gangly bard is.

She lifts her head, neck arching as she turns back to face him, wuffling low against his tousled locks.

He’s a decent fellow; by the way he reaches up and rubs across her ears, he knows he’s being an inconvenience. He croons to her, dextrous fingers carding her mane. She can feel him begin twisting a tiny plait. There must be nearly a dozen by the time he speaks again, hushed tenor straining a query as he leans against her neck. “Do _you_ fancy her, stubborn gal?”

It’s an odd question, and an address altogether unflattering, though she’ll tolerate it from this companion of theirs. _Just this once._ As to his question, she doesn’t think highly of anyone aside from her boy, not any more than she must. Humans and those of their shape come and go, and, on the whole, she hardly pays them mind, so long as they aren’t an inconvenience. Still, she can’t say _yes,_ not for this one. The comely spell-caster reeks of magic, not unlike that to which she’s long grown accustomed, yet so subtly different that it raises her hackles every time. To compound that, she’s not half so pleasant as this companionable singer. 

No, she thinks very little of the violet-eyed sorceress and her ilk. If forced to choose, the wandering musician would be her preference. Not over solitude, for she would much prefer being left to herself, but certainly over any other human’s presence. She butts at the top of his head, whickering into his hair.

“I can promise you, I’m nothing you’d want to eat, despite what my name may have led you to believe.”

She heartily agrees. His hair might smell of cloverfields when he’s had a wash, but the taste hasn’t improved over the years.

He curls close against her back, tucking his bedding around him, apparently set on keeping her company for the night. Just as well; she’s not unaccustomed to it. She casts her gaze to the large tent, knowing she’ll not catch sight of her boy before morning, but displeased all the same. She tucks her head down, feeling the shift of the bard against her back, and closes her eyes to the soft sound of his low, mournful humming.

❦❦❦

The evening, like the afternoon and morning before it, is quiet, the twilight hazy with fog that’s lingered since dawn. The day has been perfect for brooding, and – in the hours before the hunt, and now those that have followed – her boy has been taking full advantage. Not that he looks altogether changed; plodding ahead of her, reins in one head and ichor-coated blade in the other, he looks much the same as ever, if a bit messier than she prefers. Though, with the creature that met the end of that blade draped across her back and flanks, leaving her trailing drips of gore, perhaps she should withhold her judgement until after she gets a good scrubbing. 

Later; the matter at hand is more pressing.

He broods beautifully, this boy of hers; subtly enough not to look maudlin, but with a presence that – like his eyes – draws unintended attention. The issue arising is that there is no attention to draw save hers, not until they’re back to town. He needs rest, but lack thereof is a constant deficit for her boy; the set of his spine belies more than weariness. It might keep him safe in his tracking and coursing, but that thick skull of his isn’t always advantageous. 

She canters closer, knocking into his shoulder.

He drops the reins a moment, two fingers giving her nose the barest of strokes before taking her lead in hand and speeding his pace. If his rush is to get back to their inn, he’s taking the worst route they can manoeuver without turning an ankle or losing a shoe. There’s a perfectly decent road to town, wide enough for two carriages to roll abreast, but her boy insists on these circuitous rabbit runs masquerading as trails, turning them around their own tail as he chases his thoughts.

Dusk slips through the trees around them and swallows up the town by the time she catches sight of the inn over his grime-streaked hair. She’s more than grateful to see the coin change hands, to feel that horrible _thing_ hauled from her back. They’ve earned enough to afford good lodging, the sort of inn sure to have a real groom, and not just the innkeeper’s useless get turned out in the stables.

He chooses well, slips the lad at the stable door a generous sum as he passes her off with a muttered, “Good girl.”

It’s hollow praise, coming from the one that set them trekking through scrub and thistle with no thought to her; she is _more than thrilled_ to be rid of him for the night. The ache in her withers is near a throb, pain steady and bone-deep from a day made too long by half _because of him._ Not that she isn’t fond of her boy. She’s been at his side since he was a strippling, and – though he was lighter then – he’s always been as at home in the saddle as on his own two feet, moving with a surety that keeps her at ease. All the same, he’s never failed to be a touch dense about matters of the heart, most especially his own. His lacking wit has left her in this sorry state, though; she’ll not let him forget _that_ misstep.

She tosses her mane, tail flicking in a tight arc, mildly pleased at the sticky, dark splatter now marring his boot. Piled atop the rest of the filth coating him, she doubts her boy will notice, but it eases something within her, at least for the moment. Head high, she follows the groom as he leads her into the stable proper. 

❦❦❦

Another morning arrives, so similar to the slew that have come before that, were it not for the warm breakfast, she’d be nearly unable to tell it from any other. As a rule, a night in a community stable is more apt to be disastrous than pleasant; for every meal of oat mash, there are a half-dozen lumpy floors and snaggle-toothed curry combs. Had she fingers, she’d still have lost track in counting the unfortunate accommodations that – with consistent frequency – often serve as her bed for the evening. This wintry morn, though, she has a hearty meal in a roomy stall, one that offers a pleasant vantage on the town square as it readies for the day before her. It affords a good view to watch her favourite tag-along as he steps gingerly through the morning crowds. She can see him perk as he recognizes her, and deigns to flick her ears in return before shifting her attention to the far more important matter of filling her belly. Her wait will be short enough.

She’s barely gotten in another mouthful before the jabbering singer quips his sad attempt for a greeting, “Ah. Geralt’s not left, then.”

 _Obviously not,_ when one accounts for her being necessary for him to have done so. Despite knowing he was coming, she had – vainly – hoped he’d leave her at peace through her meal. It’s with no small perturbation that she lifts her mouth from the amply filled trough, catching sight of the bard lent over the side of her stall.

“Might you tell me which inn he chose for his lodging, lovely lady?”

She considers his request, but decides against it. There is something humorous in watching him fritter about when he seeks out her boy. She’s had little enough in the way of amusement of late. Still, he’s offered a compliment; she can only be so ill-mannered. She sidles to where he now sits perched on the gate-rail, offering no protest when he moves to pet her.

He reaches back, hand returning with the tiniest sliver of candied beet, and she whickers. He spoils her – as he should, _as she deserves_ – and she _is_ gladdened by his return. He knows well what an honour that is; it’s only fitting that he should bring a gift when he calls upon her.

With his head on a swivel this morning, though, and having spoken his intention with unknowing directness, he’s done poorly hiding the real nature of his visit. From another, it might warrant her offense, but he may keep her company while they await their third. The sun has crested the nearest building; her boy will be along soon enough. The singer need only sit with her, which, given the manner of his sprawl along the rail, seems to be his thought as well.

She returns to her breakfast. Let him stay if he wishes to; she is going to eat. Who can say when she’ll have hot mash again?

❦❦❦

“Must you keep riding away?!”

“Must you go on _following_ me?!”

Must _they_ keep on _yelling?_ Her boy hears better than most, and _she_ hardly struggles with poor human faculties. She fights down the urge to bolt and leave them to their idiocy. It’s been three days of this, and she has had more than her fill. With leagues of nothing before and behind them, they’d learn soon enough not to squander her time on their protracted lover’s spat. Although, hoping her boy would learn any such thing is the real wasted effort; twenty years time, and the two of them are still at loggerheads over this ridiculous business of coming and going and where and with whom.

The matter is not up for debate, since the solution is obvious to anyone with half a dram of attention. _And sense,_ which – she admits with a low winnie – the two _barely have a drop of_ between them. They walk together and eat together and sleep by the same fireside. The bard is sturdy enough to have kept up all this time, come back all these years, but her boy is thick as mud and twice as slow, most especially when he’s made up his mind about things he knows nothing of. 

_She_ knows, though; one of them has to.

He reaches for the pommel, but she trots to the side. He’ll not be riding anywhere, not with her. If they set off now, it will only end with the foppish singer catching up to them further along the road, just as flustered and twice as loud. She will not suffer through another round of this nonsense. These two are enough of a debacle to last another lifetime at least, maybe another two, if she can stand them that long.

“Give me a reason not to!”

“You would ask for more?!”

Nauseating though their stupidity might be, she can’t leave them to their own devices; they’ll starve, and she’ll never again sleep beneath a proper roof.

She stops entirely and makes a point of snorting, decisive as she bites down on blossom at the roadside. It’s yellow and bitter and tastes _positively wretched,_ but she’s not moving from this spot until they resolve things. She grips the stump of a plant with her teeth, uprooting it, chewing as noisily as she can, making clear that she is too busy for their grousing, and moves on to the next. The weeds looked plentiful, but she’s stripped the ground bare, and the two of them are – near as she can tell – still hoping to kill the other with their eyes, as if each was a basilisk.

She’s met her share of those _;_ might take a chance on one, if her idiot boy can’t work his way around this.

They’ve kept their gazes locked, and perhaps she’s more right than she knew. Under the livid stare of that still seething bard, her boy is frozen, rooted where he stands at the roadside. That’s a rare enough sight to warrant her attention. Their tag-along draws himself up, shoulders squared as he advances, stopping not even a hair’s breadth away from him. 

“Yes, you ass; _much_ more.”

 _Brave lad, this singer._ No other would _dare_ to manhandle her boy thusly; he’s as shocked as she, judging by the muffled yelp when the bard’s lips meet his. Blessedly, his protestations swiftly peter off. She turns away with a weary huff shortly after they collapse onto the ground, one atop the other in a frenzied, writhing heap. While there’s now little chance left that they’ll kill each other, there won’t likely be any measurable progress this day, not with the way things are _progressing_ behind her. Still, the _least_ they could do is clear the road; suppose someone needs to pass? It’s an embarrassment in which she refuses to take part, and she sorrows at expecting her boy to know better, but… He _does_ sound in high spirits, and that’s no mean comfort. She’ll allow them to do their making-up and broach the subject later.

She crosses the wide avenue, settling into the shade on the far side, near enough to keep an ear on the both of them, but far enough away to avoid any immediate association with their unconscionably rude misuse of a public thoroughfare.

❦❦❦

The deluge that caught them earlier has passed, leaving soggy soil and muggy evening air. She steps from beneath the hastily draped tarpaulin, as eager for a snack as she is to be free of the scent of sex. The bard offers a muzzy valediction – _“Ta, then.”_ – and she snorts a brief excuse as she takes leave of her travelling companions.

“Your horse likes me, Geralt.”

He’s a nuisance of the highest order, but she agrees; she passed mere tolerance of his presence decades ago.

“Roach is…”

Her ears prick at her name, though she keeps her head lowered, giving them their moment _alone_ while she picks her way along the creek-side. It’s rare that he speaks of her – at all, let alone to anyone save the occasional stablehand – and she can’t help but attend.

“... not all that particular.”

_Ever the flatterer._

“Unlike you?”

Her boy chuckles. She hears the both of them rolling over again, not bothering to look back; she’d seen enough of them in that state over their years together _before_ this afternoon. There’s little new under the sun, and she’s found a patch of truffles far more pleasing to her taste than the sight of those two rutting. She’ll hear trouble should it arise, provided they don’t start up again with too much vigour, but there’s no knowing with that tag-along of theirs. Not that she doesn’t carry a steady fondness for the bard – not when he treats them so well – but – Oh! – _the_ _lungs on that one._

“I can see why she would fancy me; _I_ am very good company.”

“Exceptional, but…”

She spies a familiar bit of green, fluffy blossom long-since gone to seed; they drift like down on the breeze when she snatches it up from the ground. It’s a bit wilted from the summer heat, but that’s substantially cut its inherent bitterness.

“Are you implying she doesn’t, then?”

“Only stating that she’s a _horse,_ Jaskier _._ Horses _do not care.”_

How _dare_ her boy _call her uncaring?!_ It is such a _blatant lie_ that she can’t help taking umbrage. She casts a baleful gaze toward the both of them, only to see the bard blinking back, dulcet voice raised in her defense. 

“You oughtn’t say that.”

_Precisely._

“After all, Geralt; she’s a decent old girl.”

Decent? _Decent?!_ This audacity – of her boy and the bard both – is beyond the pale. She’ll not tolerate it, not for a moment more, not with the largesse she has offered as a font of boundless patience in the face of their constant ineptitudes. Without sparing a glance to either, she lifts her head and turns into the scrub, high-stepping into the undergrowth with a purposeful flounce of her tail. She’s had quite enough of their foolishness.

“Hey.”

“Hn?”

“The horse has wandered off.”

That she has, and let them prick their little pink hides chasing her if they have need. She whickers to herself and pauses her supping to listen.

Her boy speaks as calmly as ever – _“She never goes far.”_ – unknowing that he’s just set her mind on proving him wrong. She picks up again in her walking, moving on into the dusk as their conversation lulls. She’s a good stade away when she again hears snatches of their chattering, words drifting on the breeze.

“Geralt?”

“Hn?”

“Aren’t our dry clothes _packed on the horse?”_

“Yeah.”

Her pair of idiots are remiss, as usual, in properly attending to her feelings, so she continues on her way. Ahead, she spies a patch of saw-toothed green leaves, leggy plants laden with blossoms. They’re sharp, acrid with the barest crunch. She wanders further along, following the twisting trail of golden flower tufts, chewing all the while as her companions prattle on.

“My lute?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Your sword?”

“Fuck.” Her boy’s bitten-off curse echoes through the misty twilight.

Roach nickers a laugh to herself and eats another dandelion.

❦❦❦

**Author's Note:**

> Dandelion jokes, snark, and equine fremdschämen; exactly what you came for, yes?
> 
> ❦❦❦


End file.
